


What Happened in Berlin

by storm_dog_pirate, wafflesandkruge



Series: Like Real People Do [1]
Category: Nikolai Series - Leigh Bardugo, The Grisha Trilogy - Leigh Bardugo
Genre: 1960s AU, Cold War, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, OR IS IT, aka why zoya throws a chair at him when they meet again, cat and mouse themes, like real people do prequel, nikolai with glasses, spy AU, they get one kiss as a treat, vaguely man from uncle inspired, vodka as a coping mechanism, zoya's villain origin story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:34:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25399234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storm_dog_pirate/pseuds/storm_dog_pirate, https://archiveofourown.org/users/wafflesandkruge/pseuds/wafflesandkruge
Summary: Nikolai had been sent to East Berlin by the CIA to steal some documents. Zoya had been sent to East Berlin by the KGB to capture an American agent.Told from both perspectives, Nikolai and Zoya recount the first time they encountered each other in the field.
Relationships: Nikolai Lantsov/Zoya Nazyalensky
Series: Like Real People Do [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1839556
Comments: 4
Kudos: 23





	1. The Berlin Affair, as narrated by Nikolai Lantsov, CIA

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a prequel to Like Real People Do which is set about half a year after the events of this fic. LRPD is already completely plotted/partially written, but will probably be saved for the gvbb next year so you'll have to wait, but at least this doesn't hang on a cliffhanger. Maybe.
> 
> Chap. 1 written by @foxp2.

Nikolai was one step ahead of them. 

He was on the balcony of a restaurant the opposite side of the street, looking through his binoculars and through the windows of a well-known cafe. It was easy to spot his contact—or his _alleged_ contact. She stood out among the rest of the people in the shop, the long waves of raven hair were hard to miss, and the way her dark eyes roamed the room didn’t go unnoticed by him. At least she looked like a civilian hiding among the crowd.

But Nikolai knew otherwise.

Their informant had told them in the last minute that the Russians knew about the handoff between the CIA contact and him. The documents contained the names of Russian moles in the American government, and if it were really true, the chaos would be unimaginable. The KGB had sent someone to pose as his contact, and Nikolai sent a silent prayer of respect to whatever fate his actual contact had gotten.

Apparently the bad news didn’t stop there. The Russians also knew about Nikolai, his past, reputation, and identity. Basically what they needed to catch him. But a good informant was all it took to be one step ahead. Perhaps he should treat Brekker a drink after he got out of this damned mission.

The raven-haired woman checked her watch, her fingers tapping impatiently on the table. The geek side in him tried to think that she was secretly tapping out a message in Morse code, but he knew he was being ridiculous. His triumph over outsmarting the KGB was bringing too much amusement to him.

With one final look over the woman, Nikolai turned to leave. It would be tricky to find the actual documents without the contact now. But he would find a way.

There was no ‘impossible’. Only improbable.

That night he sent a transmission to the _contact_ , asking for a reschedule for the drop off due to a ‘nefarious interference’. He’d had a good laugh over it, as he wasn’t planning to show up to the rescheduled date. The KGB could go wait for another whole day and waste their time trying to plan how to ambush him or just give up trying to corner him. Either way, he didn’t care. 

For now, he had some searching to do.

* * *

The information came on the day of the _third_ attempt of the dropoff. Nikolai was following some leads he was able to connect to the actual CIA contact when his pager gave a resounding tone.

“The woman who posed as your contact has the documents hidden somewhere in her place. One of my spies had followed her back to her place and overheard her arguing about it on the phone.”

There were no other messages aside from that, and Nikolai grit his teeth in frustration. He had no plans to make an appearance over the same crowded cafe where he had been leading the contact on. The odds had definitely shifted his way, but now he _had_ to make actual contact with the woman.

Perhaps he could have at least a bit of fun trying to charm the stern-faced woman. 

“All right,” he muttered to himself as he left his current location. “Let’s see if your charm has limits, Lantsov.” 

Evening came, and at the same time it was the time of the dropoff. Nikolai made sure to go an hour later than the set time as he assumed that by now, the woman would have had much less patience waiting on nothing for the last three meetups. 

He arrived at the corner of the street the cafe was in, risking a glance to the cafe’s interior. To his relief, the raven-haired woman was still there on the same table he had seen her during the first dropoff. She still looked regal as ever, and for some reason, Nikolai felt drawn to her dark, observing eyes. 

_No,_ he scolded himself. _You’re here to get the documents, not to get distracted by her._

Nikolai adjusted the glasses on his nose, careful not to dishivel his dark-colored hair. The shoe polish felt sticky and wet on his hair, but he braved through it. It was the only thing that would hide his true identity besides the lenses that made his eye color muddy green.

There was movement at the corner of his eye, and he turned to look just in time to see the woman emerge from the cafe’s front door. For a moment, their eyes met, and Nikolai swore he had never seen another woman _that_ gorgeous. 

He sucked in a breath as if he had been punched in the gut. _Her eyes were stormy blue._

_Focus, you idiot._

Automatically, a smile appeared on his face, the act already beginning. And yet, he couldn’t stop staring at her.

“Good evening,” Nikolai said, mustering all the suave he had in him. If he was going to act around her, he might as well give it his best. “What’s a beautiful woman like you doing here alone?”

He had expected her to ignore him and walk away, and he’d have to think of another plan to approach her. But much to his surprise, the raven-haired woman said, “My supposed date stood me up.” She shook her head. “For the third time.”

Nikolai bit back his tongue to keep himself from laughing. It’s going to be fun, indeed. “Oh? Only a fool wouldn’t show up to meet a gorgeous woman like you,” he said. He bowed his head a little, regarding her with respect. “May I be the one to make up for _his_ loss tonight? I would like to buy you a drink.” 

The woman eyed him for a moment, and Nikolai wondered why he was feeling nervous all of a sudden. Had he been drinking too much coffee for the past several days? “Alright, then,” the woman said, tiredness obvious in her voice. “Take me away, stranger.”

Nikolai didn’t expect to get to her apartment _that_ quickly. 

They had talked for hours about the random things they could think of, with him trying to jab a few compliments to his reply when he saw the chance, and she would just brush it off with an eye roll or a shake of her head.

But when Zoey—or so what she had told him her name was after a couple of drinks and to which he introduced himself as Napoleon—ended up drinking one too many shots, she drunkenly told him to take her back to her place.

He obliged, of course. _To have the chance to search her place_ , he reminded himself. And also out of respect. Nikolai wasn’t one to leave a woman in her drunken state in public.

That was how he ended up guiding Zoey to her door, with her fumbling for the key to open the lock. When she finally opened the door after several tries, Nikolai stood awkwardly over the door frame, seemingly nervous about the sudden turn of events. 

Zoey stumbled through the door, and then turned to look at him expectantly. He blinked, staring right back at her. The guarded aspect in her blue eyes was gone and replaced by an obvious desire. Nikolai felt his throat become dry. 

With a roll of her eyes, the raven-haired woman grabbed him by the lapels of his coat and pulled him inside, clumsily closing the door behind him. And then her hands were roaming over his shoulders and down his chest as she tried to shove the coat off his shoulders. 

Nikolai let out a nervous laugh, reaching a hand up to stop her ministrations. “Alright, let’s take it slow, my dear,” he murmured. The feel of her hand in his felt just _right_. “Let’s get you to bed.”

“No,” she slurred, trying to pry her hands away from him. “ _Distract me._ ”

She sounded desperate and strained, and he knew that it was because of her mission that kept being delayed by _his_ doing. But Nikolai held firm. He _refused_ to take advantage of her state. “Hush now. You’re drunk.” Then he scooped her up in his arms and carried her to the bedroom, tucking her in the bed carefully. 

Zoey had already fallen asleep in the short span of the walk from her door to the bedroom. She looked peaceful in her sleep, the furrowed eyebrows and the full frown completely gone. A stray hair was on her cheek, and Nikolai’s hand twitched at his side as he fought the urge to brush it away. 

He still did it anyway. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?” he said, though he knew he should be finishing the mission tonight while he’s already in her apartment and she was fast asleep. 

Zoey grumbled back something in Russian, and turned to her side. Nikolai chuckled softly. She could be the death of him, he realized, and he could only hope it wouldn’t be too literal. 

He searched her apartment for a bit, careful not to misplace anything, and he spotted a safe under the bed. A laugh escaped him. _Bingo_. 

The safe had a wheel combination lock, and Nikolai eyed it a bit longer before a knock on the front door startled him out of his spelunking. He’d figure out how to get it later. 

He figured he _could_ prolong their tryst for a few more days. It wouldn’t be that much of a problem. Hopefully.

* * *

Their ‘meetups’ continued for the next week. Mostly it was Nikolai trying to follow Zoey to the places she’d go in hopes to continue to track down ‘Nikolai Lantsov’. That’s why it was always fun and amusing seeing her surprised expression whenever he _happened_ to be around after she gave up in tracking her ‘leads’.

Nikolai had always asked her out for a drink at the pub, and more times than not, she accepted his invitation. Though she never got _that_ drunk after the first night they actually met. 

There was even a time when he had invited her to a strange play with tickets that he had managed to _snag_ from the seller. Zoey hadn’t enjoyed a minute of it, and it was quite amusing to see her furrowed brows and deadpan expression all throughout the night as he kept stealing glances on her way. 

He had driven her back to her place and when he looked at her, Nikolai was sure he could have seen an expectant look in her eyes. His heart did a weird flip, but he only brushed it off with a laugh and leaned forward to kiss her cheek. He hadn’t planned to do it—it was as if his body acted on its own and he was left questioning his reasons for prolonging this tryst.

He knew he should have finished the mission after a few days; feeling around for the combination to the safe would be a child’s play for him, but somehow Nikolai couldn’t stop their nightly rendezvous. His infatuation for her was slowly growing into something more. 

Maybe that was why when a message came to his pager on a particular night in a pub while they were drinking did Nikolai decide that he would finally get the mission done.

He had excused himself in the restroom to read it, and was floored by the lone message.

“The woman that KGB sent was Zoya Nazyalensky. They’ve called off the operation. This is your chance. Get out now if you want to live.”

Nikolai reared back in shock. No wonder her name sounded _so_ familiar. The KGB had sent their deadliest and most cunning agent to stop him. And he had been confident of himself to prolong their dalliance.

 _Shit_.

He thought back of the times Zoey—or _Zoya_ —had agreed to his offer. Had she really been interested in him? Or had she just needed something to distract her for her frustrations over a dead end? Or worse, did she know who he was and this was all an elaborate trap?

Nikolai stopped himself. It wasn’t the right time to think about those things. The mission was still ongoing, and he wasn’t going to back down from it just because the KGB had sent their gorgeous yet deadly agent for him. 

He put the pager back in his coat. This would be done tonight.

He returned to their spot by the bar, trying his best not to show the strained expression on his face. Zoya was still on her seat, lazily swirling the drink in her hand. Her eyes lit up a little when she met his gaze.

“Leaving?” she asked.

Nikolai forced a smile to his face, but it felt more like a grimace. “Far from it.”

They ended up in her apartment again. But this time, neither of them were intoxicated. 

The door wasn’t even completely closed when Zoya yanked at his tie and crashed her lips to his. Nikolai had expected her eagerness, her release of frustration because of a failed mission. 

But he didn’t anticipate his own. 

Nikolai responded almost immediately, pushing her against the back of the door after he kicked it close. His hand came to the back of her neck, and he kissed her harder as he felt her hands working on the buttons of his coat. He felt on fire under her touch. He helped her take the garment off of his shoulders, only pausing for a second to breathe before they were onto each other again. 

He could still taste the vodka on her tongue, and if she had been a drink Nikolai was sure he would be intoxicated the moment he got a taste of her. 

The sudden feel of her hands reaching up to his hair was the one that brought him back from his stupor. His mind started thinking straight again. 

The hair color would come off. She would discover his true identity. 

_You still have a mission, Lantsov._

It was those alarming thoughts that made him pull away, albeit reluctantly, a light laugh coming from his lips. He started to think of excuses to get to the bedroom. “Let me freshen up first, okay?”

Zoya’s eyes were dark with want as she looked back up at him, and for a moment, all he wanted was to kiss her senseless again. But his duties were pushing back hard to his mind. She stepped away reluctantly. “Alright,” she said, almost breathless.

Nikolai took the chance to slip to the bedroom while she was still rooted by the door. He could hear clatters and thuds as she straightened something out. How fortunate for him that she was distracted. His fingers were shaking as he felt around for the combination of the safe, carelessly spinning around the wheel. 

The memory of her against him was enough to distract him from unlocking the safe, and he cursed his stupidity for letting it overcome him. He shouldn’t have prolonged this affair for a week; he should have just gotten around and unlocked the safe that night when she was drunk and went his own way. But instead he almost let her crawl her way to his heart because of his foolishness, and he nearly lost sight of what he needed to do. 

So much for being _the_ heartbreaker and womanizer. It came back to slap him in the face. _You break hearts, Lantsov, not give your own away._

A click finally resounded after several tries, and the safe opened. Nikolai quickly grabbed the manila envelope and searched for a way out. No time for distractions. He got what he needed. 

The window was his only option, and he hoped he didn’t have to jump off the ledge that might ruin his suit. He paused by the pane, turning back to the nightstand. Perhaps he could get himself a token to remind him of KGB's deadliest agent. 

After getting some souvenirs from her drawer, Nikolai went out through the bedroom window. Thankfully, there was a metal staircase leading to the ground floor and Nikolai bolted for his car parked by the curb. 

He thought he had lost her back in the apartment complex. But as he looked over his rearview mirror, he saw another car gaining up on him. At the driver’s seat was his raven-haired almost-lover. And she looked _murderous._

Despite the danger and probable death he was in, Nikolai let out a laugh. Oh, how he had gotten in this situation. He supposed he was still _fond_ of her, even if she wanted to kill him.

A shot rang out, and there was a loud sound of bursting tires. Now would be the perfect time to panic. 

“Come on, love. Let me go this once,” Nikolai muttered as he tried to keep on driving despite the busted back tire. He was almost near the checkpoint. 

Another shot rang out, and the other back tire exploded. Nikolai cursed under his breath. The woman was deadly, indeed. Without having much of a choice, he ditched the car and settled for running instead. The guardhouse by the checkpoint was at least half a kilometer away. 

Nikolai risked a glance back, and wished he didn’t. Zoya had also gotten out of the car and was _calmly_ following him, like she had all the time in the world. He finally reached the checkpoint and was immediately stopped by two guards. 

“Look, man, I’m American, okay? I know I missed the curfew by an hour but look, I have an American passport,” Nikolai knew he was babbling, but with Zoya Nazyalensky at his tail? It was only normal to talk quickly. “And my crazy ex-girlfriend is out to kill me. Let me pass?”

To his surprise, the guards chuckled. “Damn, that’s rough, buddy.” One of them patted him on the shoulder, and they only took a glance at his passport before they were waving him through. 

The moment Nikolai was beyond the barricades, he let out a relieved sigh. He got to live for another day.

“KGB. Let me through.” 

Nikolai whirled around to see Zoya’s disheveled yet still deadly presence by the guardhouse, and she was staring right at him even as she spoke to the guards. He leaned over the bridge railing, watching as the guards stopped her from pushing through the barricades. 

“Identification, please,” one of the guards said.

He watched in amusement as Zoya tapped around her dress in search of her identification card. Nikolai let out a laugh, and it caught the raven-haired woman’s attention. She looked up just as he produced a card from his vest pocket and waved it in the air.

A shadow crossed her face, and he was sure she was thinking of all the ways to murder him. He’d definitely miss her glare. Particularly _her_. It wasn’t often that he got to meet someone as cunning and beautiful as Zoya Nazyalensky. He could only hope that she’d remember him.

Just then, his mind suddenly came up with an idea. 

_Something to remember me by._ With another smile, Nikolai teasingly hovered his hand holding her ID card over the railing. He saw Zoya’s eyes widen, her lips moving as if to say something spiteful at him, and it only gave him more reason to go through with his idea.

He flicked the card into the river.

If it was possible for her to look much more murderous, he was sure that her current demeanor would pass as one. He could practically hear her thoughts about wanting to murder him, but Nikolai only gave her a wink, a silent promise to meet her again, before he turned and went on his way.

_Until next time, love._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Read on for Zoya's take of Berlin ;)


	2. The Berlin Incident, as narrated by Zoya Nazyalensky, KGB

Berlin was supposed to be an easy mission, a breather before she got sent on a near-impossible assignment to Beijing, or Istanbul, or another far-flung corner of the world where the Kremlin wanted eyes. Honestly, it was almost an insult to put an agent of her caliber on an assignment as trivial as capturing some hotshot CIA operative.

Nikolai Lantsov. She had his file memorized forwards and backwards and could probably recite it in her sleep. In her defense, there literally was not much else she could do to prepare for this mission.  _ Art thief. Womanizer. Best in the field _ . She had snorted at that last bit. It was such an  _ American _ thing to boast. He wouldn’t have that title for long if the operation went well.

She drummed her fingers against the table impatiently. Lantsov had arranged the meeting at the popular cafe last night through a radio transmission, but it had been nearly an hour and she hadn’t seen anyone even remotely resembling his pale curls and twinkling eyes from his file’s photograph. To be fair, the photograph was nearly two decades old. But unless he’d suddenly become a brunette with a scar on his cheek, she doubted the man sitting at the adjoining table was him. 

Zoya waited another two hours. In that time, the sun dipped below the horizon and the street lamps flickered on. Still no Lantsov. The KGB had been alerted about him crossing into East Berlin the other day, and there had been no reports of him leaving just yet. If he’d somehow been tipped off about her sting operation, then there was going to be much more work in her immediate future. She huffed in frustration and tossed a few bills down at the table to pay for the coffees she’d had. There wasn’t a point in waiting any longer.

She drove back to the apartment she was staying at, a little miffed, but she supposed disappointment and a few wasted hours were infinitely better than a shootout. She expected she’d be sent back to Moscow soon if Lantsov had turned tail, so she might as well make the most of her down time. 

One long bath later, Zoya flopped back into her (rather uncomfortable) bed. She’d just gotten settled in with a rather scandalous romance novel (her one capitalistic indulgence) when the radio set in the corner started sputtering. The radio set she’d had tuned to Lantsov’s specific frequency. She looked longingly at her book, then at the radio. On one hand, she could pretend Lantsov was dead and enjoy herself. Or she could respond and try to salvage this operation.

As usual, loyalty to her country won out and she slipped the headphones on. 

“Love speaks in flowers.”

For a moment, there was only static, and Zoya was sure the radio had just been acting up. Typical Soviet equipment. But a moment later, a voice patched through.

“But truth requires thorns,” the man responded in badly accented German. Zoya let out a breath.  _ Lantsov. _

“Missed you at the drop earlier,” she said, straight to business. She was meant to deliver documents identifying several Russian moles in the American government. Or at least that’s what Lantsov thought they were. The KGB wasn’t willing to put such sensitive information on the line, even for what should have been an open and shut mission, so Zoya was in the possession of some very convincing fakes. Fakes that should have been handed off hours ago.

“Well,” he drawled. “There was... _ interference _ . I haven’t been made, but we’ll need to reschedule. ”

Zoya took a deep breath. “Okay. What works for you?” 

_ We sound like we’re scheduling a _ dinner date, she thought with a roll of her eyes. 

“Tomorrow, same time and place.”

“Works for me. Make sure you bother to show up this time,  _ sobachka _ .” She hated his call sign. What kind of grown man would give himself the call sign of the Russian equivalent of  _ puppy _ ? “My time isn’t cheap.”

“It’s a date, then.” The line cut out before Zoya could give a scathing retort. 

She phoned her team to notify them about the next drop, then nestled back into bed. On a whim, she picked up the file on the nightstand. Lantsov’s bright eyes stared out at her, frozen in a moment of joviality. She briefly wondered (not for the first time) what had compelled him to start his criminal lifestyle which had eventually landed him in hot water with the CIA. Zoya hadn’t had much choice with her career choice, but Lantsov had clearly made a decision, even if it wasn’t the right one. 

They really couldn’t have been more different people.

* * *

The bastard really stood her up  _ again _ . She waited an hour longer this time, but nothing. At least she got most of her way through her novel. 

Back at the apartment, Lantsov contacted her, pleaded “trouble with his car” and rescheduled for the next day. Zoya bit back a string of Russian curses and agreed. This time, she would carry her gun under her coat just so she could shoot that stupid man if he deigned to show up. 

It was...Friday now. The cafe was as busy as ever, the sharp sounds of German surrounding her. Zoya did her best to look bored and flip through the pages of her book, but inside she was seething. Lantsov  _ had _ to have caught on by now, and was probably just playing her, but it wasn’t like she could just abandon her pretense of a CIA contact and hunt him for real. She turned a page with a sharp  _ snap _ . 

Like the other two nights, the sun disappeared but still no Lantsov. Zoya drained the rest of her coffee, tried not to slam the mug onto the table, and stalked out. Her handler could go to hell —  she wasn’t going to participate in this ruse anymore. A gust of cold wind greeted her as the cafe door closed behind her and she looked down momentarily to button her coat. When she looked up, she found a dark-haired man looking back. 

The stranger seemed to be a walking contradiction from the quick assessment Zoya took. His clothes blended in with the other men on the street, but she could tell they’d been tailored to fit him exceptionally well. He wore an expensive watch, but the soles of his shoes were worn. His face was handsome, open. Friendly. He brushed his oil black curls from his eyes and smiled. It was an oddly familiar look.

“Good evening.” His German was lightly accented, though she couldn’t tell from where. “What’s a beautiful woman like you doing here alone?”

Zoya looked into his muddy green eyes and tried to ascertain his intentions. Just a man looking for a date for the night? “My...supposed date stood me up,” she lied. The best lies were those closest to the truth. She shook her head, made her shoulders slump in weariness. Men loved a little damsel-in-distress routine. “For the third time.”

Merriment twinkled in his eyes for a second before vanishing. He took a step forward and inclined his head a bit, giving her a once-over. “Oh? Only a fool wouldn’t show up to meet a gorgeous woman like you.”

Zoya gave a breathy sigh.  _ If only he knew _ . 

“May I be the one to make up for his loss tonight? I would like to buy you a drink.”

Zoya fought back a victorious smile.  _ Hook, line, and sinker _ . She studied him once again. It was possible he was an intelligence agent; the contradictions in his appearance definitely suggested it. But she found herself not caring too much, not if it meant a night of fun and forgetting about Lantsov. As long as he wasn’t MI6. Saints, she  _ despised _ MI6.

“Alright then.” She let a little weariness seep into her voice to sell the act. “Take me away, stranger.”

He grinned again, and something in the back Zoya’s brain noted how  _ familiar _ the smile was. Which was absurd, because she usually had a knack for remembering faces. She shook off her doubt as he offered his elbow to her. “I’m Napoleon.”

She almost scoffed.  _ Alias _ . 

“Zoey.”

* * *

The night passed by in one vaguely vodka-flavored blur. They’d gotten along relatively well, or at least they had after he’d bought Zoya a drink or five. Everything he threw at her, she gave back. It was too easy to lay a hand on his arm, laugh at his jokes, let her gaze drop to his lips when he was talking. It was clear he was interested, even if he was tough to read. So she’d invited him back to her apartment.

She fumbled with the keys, squinting and trying to get the three separate images she had of them to line up. Saints, how much had she drunk? Napoleon had nursed the same glass all night, but he was perfectly content to let Zoya keep ordering. If she were another woman, she might have feared Napoleon was trying to take advantage of her. But the weight of her gun was a comfort, and so was the knowledge of the knife under her pillow. 

After a rather awkward minute, she finally got the lock to click open and she stumbled in. A quick visual sweep showed that she’d remembered to stash all her gear away. Good. She shrugged off her coat and holster, making sure the fabric fell just so to conceal the weapon. Napoleon stood awkwardly in the hallway, the dim lighting casting shadows across his angular face. Hesitation was obvious across his handsome features. 

With a roll of her eyes, Zoya reached over and pulled him in by the lapel of his coat. He grabbed her arm to steady her as she leaned to shut the door and nearly toppled over. His hand was warm against her bare skin. Slowly, oh so slowly, she placed her hands on his neck and let them slide under the collar of his coat. He only watched her move, seemingly transfixed. His hand didn’t move from her arm. As one, they took several stumbling steps until Napoleon’s back was pressed against the front door.

His shoulders were broad and muscular under her roaming fingers. No shoulder holster, she noticed. Perhaps she was wrong about her earlier hunch. 

It was only when she tried to push the coat off his shoulders that he seemed to shake himself out of his stupor. His hands closed around her wrists, locking them into place. Zoya struggled a bit, but he was strong. 

He laughed, the sound warm and inviting. “Alright, let’s take it slow, my dear. Let’s get you to bed.”

Zoya almost pouted. She tried to yank her hands back, but his grip was unrelenting. “No,” she insisted. “ _ Distract me _ .”

He blinked. Too late, she realized the words had come out in Russian. Thankfully, he laughed it off. He leaned a little closer, their noses nearly touching. 

“Hush now.” His words were a near whisper, his breath warm. “You’re drunk.”

She had an overwhelming urge to respond with a childish ‘ _ No I’m not _ .’ A wave of fatigue hit her and Zoya let her head fall into the crook of his neck. She felt his body tense, then relax. He smelled like expensive cologne and…  _ shoe polish? _ Zoya’s nose wrinkled with the sharp scent. 

Dimly, she was aware of being picked up and carried into the bedroom. She was already half-asleep as he pulled off her shoes and tucked her in, his hands gentle. His fingers brushed against her cheek. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

“ _ I wouldn’t bet on it _ ,” she mumbled as she turned onto her side and curled up. His quiet chuckle was the last thing she heard before sleep claimed her.

* * *

Lantsov didn’t contact her through the radio again. There weren’t any reports of a man with Lantsov’s description crossing back into the West side, so she had to assume he was still in the Eastern part, hiding and waiting for an opportunity. Or he was shot dead in a ditch somewhere. Either way, hunting was much more her style than playing a cover.

Much to her frustration, every time she thought she was close,  _ Napoleon _ would pop up with his infuriating smile and distract her. She had to wonder why he seemed to have an endless amount of time everyday to spend irritating her. 

“Tea? I would have taken you to be a coffee type,” a voice quipped from behind her. Zoya’s body tensed for a fraction of a second before she realized who it was. Saints, he  _ had _ to be a spy —  _ no one _ snuck up on her like that. He took the chair across from her at the outdoors cafe she’d heard reports about a man with Lantsov’s description frequenting.

“ _ Napoleon _ .”

“ _ Zoey. _ ” His tone mirrored hers perfectly, though he had a wide and easygoing smile on his face. His glasses were a little crooked, but she resisted the urge to reach over and straighten them. He flagged down a waiter and asked for “the usual.” She sure hoped he didn’t expect her to pay for him.

“Don’t you have a  _ job _ ?” she snapped. 

“Tough economy out there.” He spread his hands in a “what can you do” gesture. “Besides, you’re a fun person to be around. Especially when drunk.”

Zoya’s cheeks heated. She only remembered bits and pieces from the first night they met and, honestly, that was probably for the best. She took a drink of tea to mask her moment of silence. 

“What do you want now?”

He reached into his jacket and pulled out two pieces of paper. “I have tickets to a play tonight. My date cancelled on me.”

Zoya tried not to roll her eyes. Was he really inviting her to a  _ play _ ? Unlike him, she had actual responsibilities. 

Seeing her reluctance, he spoke again. “Come on, it’ll be fun. It’s one of the ah, not so legal ones.”

Oh, she’d heard plenty about East Berlin’s underground arts scene. She supposed she was curious and bored enough to take advantage of this opportunity. 

“Alright.”

“Really?” Boyish glee lit up his features. “I’ll pick you up from your place at eight.”

She’d have plenty of time to finish following up on her other leads. She nodded, then finished her tea. There wasn’t any reason to stay here then, not when no one in the cafe for the last hour matched Lantsov’s description. She’d be back around lunchtime. 

Napoleon gave her a look of hurt as she stood up and tossed a few bills on the table. “You’d really let a man eat his meal alone?”

“I’m sure you can find a more willing companion. See you tonight.” The words felt strange in her mouth. Was she looking forward to it? Couldn’t be. She forced herself to walk away at a brisk pace without a backwards look. 

She had a job to do.

* * *

The play was...strange, some allegory about communism, death, and overconsumption that probably went over Zoya’s head. But Napoleon seemed to enjoy it, so she supposed it actually made sense to some people. He drove her back to her apartment a little past midnight and she almost expected him to park the car and head up with her, but he’d just laughed, kissed her on the cheek, and bid her good night. 

Their meetings continued throughout the week, each time with Napoleon inventing some ridiculous excuse to invite her to a new attraction in Berlin. Most of the time, out of sheer boredom, she accepted. Lantsov continued to elude her and was most likely dead at this point, and as Napoleon liked to say, there was no point in beating a dead horse. 

Zoya pushed open the door to her apartment, a little unsteady on her feet. Napoleon had taken her to an underground speakeasy of some sort and she’d ordered some strange drink that tasted like strawberries but had packed quite a punch. Beside her, he laughed quietly. 

“Doing alright there?”

Ever the gentleman, he’d walked her to her door. Zoya didn’t bother inviting him inside.

“I’m fine,” she insisted. She leaned against the doorframe. “I’m guessing you’ll find me tomorrow?”

“Something like that,” he agreed. He made quite a sight in his neat black suit leaning against the less than clean walls of the building.  _ Spy _ , Zoya’s mind reminded her. She shook away the thought.

“I’ll see you then.”

“Hmm.” He detached himself from the wall and came closer until the now familiar scent of shoe polish could tickle Zoya’s nose. Her breath hitched a little as he leaned in. “Good night.”

And with that, he was gone, whistling as he made his way down the hall. Zoya stared after him for a second before slamming the door shut. What an idiot.

She kicked off her shoes and flopped onto the couch. What was she still doing here? Lantsov was gone, and the fake documents had been sitting in her safe untouched for more than a week. It was a waste of a good agent. 

Just then, the phone rang, the sound shrill and unwelcome in the silence of the apartment. Groaning, she dragged herself off the couch to pick up. Only a few people had the landline’s number, and none of them were patient people.

“How’s the weather?” her handler asked in brisk Russian.

“Unchanged.”

There was a sigh from the other side of the line. “We’ll cut our losses here, then. Your services are required elsewhere. You’ll be returning home in two days, the transportation will be arranged shortly. Make sure you don’t leave any belongings behind.”

“Understood.” The call cut out and she was left standing there to think. The call really should have come much earlier, so why did she feel...disappointed? It wasn’t like there was anything she’d miss from Berlin. Not a thing. Napoleon’s easy grin popped into her mind. Especially not him.

She slammed the phone back into its cradle and started shoving her things into a canvas bag.

* * *

“You look like you could use a nap,” Napoleon remarked. Zoya didn’t bother looking at him as she waved the bartender over to pour her another shot. 

“Long day.” She’d spent most of last night and the whole morning and afternoon packing up. There wasn’t much to do in that respect, but she’d been dragging her feet for some reason and it’d taken hours longer than it should have. She’d given up around dinnertime and found herself at the pub a few streets away. She wasn’t surprised when Napoleon had slid into the seat next to her. 

They exchanged barbs for a few minutes, but Zoya’s heart wasn’t in it. A crease of concern appeared between his brows, and she was sure he was about to ask what was wrong, but then something in his pocket chirped. Zoya was almost glad when he excused himself for a moment to go read his pager’s message. Saints, she was having such a shit day. She briefly considered just leaving, but then Napoleon came back. There was a new tightness in his face that wasn’t there before. 

“Leaving?”

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Far from it.”

* * *

Zoya wasn’t sure how they ended up at her apartment again, but there was a definite shift in both their moods. Something had changed between them. Napoleon stepped over the threshold without invitation, and before the door was even closed, she yanked him down by his tie so she could kiss him. 

He responded almost immediately, pushing her back against the door. For a second, Zoya was dazed as her head was knocked back against the wood, but then his hands were cupping the back of her neck and he was stealing her breath once again. Her fingers went to his coat, the same one that had eluded her last time. He pulled away for a moment to shrug it off. Zoya used the brief respite to admire him in the dim light, his lean lines and hard angles.  _ Красивый _ .

Then they tangled together again, his arm snaking around her waist to pull her closer. He tasted of whiskey and something sharper she couldn’t quite place, but she was sure she’d figure it out if she just kept kissing him. She placed her hands on the back of his neck, her fingers playing with the curls that nearly touched his collar–

He suddenly stepped back with a sheepish laugh. All the warmth seemed to go with him and Zoya shivered as she realized how cold the apartment actually was. Had she done something wrong?

“Let me freshen up first, okay?” She blinked. He looked perfect to her, with his disheveled hair and wrinkled shirt. 

“Alright,” she managed to say, surprised she still had breath in her to do so. 

He gave her a quick smile before slipping off into her bathroom. Zoya took a moment to regather her wits, but as she turned her head, she caught sight of the radio set she’d left out in the haste of packing. There couldn’t be a more obvious sign she was a spy. Cursing, she hoped Napoleon would be occupied for a while as she tried to shove the whole thing into a broom closet. After some vigorous shoving and swearing, the closet door closed.

She sighed in relief and turned to go back to where Napoleon was probably waiting for her, but that’s when she saw it. A black handprint on the closet door where she’d been pushing it closed. Frowning, she held her hands out in front of her, and even in the dingy yellow light from outside, she could see they were smeared with a sticky black substance. She brought a hand to her nose and sniffed.  _ Shoe polish? But how– _

When she’d touched Napoleon’s hair. Because he had been using shoe polish to darken it. His eye color had been changed too. That’s why all her leads led to him. Why he was always so evasive about himself. She’d suspected he was an intelligence agent, but she had been so goddamn  _ stupid _ and never put two and two together until now. Napoleon  _ was _ Nikolai Lantsov. He’d been laughing at her this whole time.

And he was now suspiciously silent. She rushed over to her bedroom, but as expected, it was empty. No Napoleon– Nikolai– in sight. The safe under her bed was open, the inside empty. Her window was wide open. From the street below, a car engine gunned. So that was how he wanted to play. Fine. She wasn’t the KGB’s best agent for nothing. She grabbed the gun from her nightstand and clambered out onto the fire escape.

Her heels made climbing the grated metal difficult, so she ditched them somewhere on the second floor. She should have been cold in nothing but a sleeveless dress, but her fury at being duped burned through her. How _ dare _ he lead her on and play her like that, she wasn’t some sloppy spy who could be seduced with a handful of compliments and kisses–

Her dress caught on the last rung of the ladder as she jumped to the sidewalk, but a rip was the least of her concerns right now. Thankfully, she’d parked her car in front and it wasn’t long before she was roaring after Nikolai on a merry car chase. He was too careful of a driver and it wasn’t long before she was nearly caught up with him despite the unfamiliar streets. No– as the sights whipped by, she realized they were nearing the wall. 

He was trying to cross back over, not reach an extraction point. That wouldn’t be easy, given the fact it was long after curfew. Her hands tightened on the steering wheel. He’d be hers soon.

She took the gun from the passenger seat and stretched her hand out the window.  _ Bang _ . One of his back tires blew, causing the car to veer. To his credit, it straightened back out and he made a sharp turn in an attempt to throw her off. 

Zoya followed, the tires of her own car screeching as she pushed it beyond what it was meant to do. With another well aimed shot, the other back tire blew and he was forced to stop. The wall loomed a few blocks ahead, the lights bright and glaring. As she watched, Nikolai abandoned his car and started sprinting towards the checkpoint. 

She brought her car to a stop behind his and made sure her gun still had ammo before exiting. She wasn’t in a rush. He would never be able to cross the wall, not at this hour. 

The sidewalk was freezing beneath her stockinged feet as she stalked towards him. He’d reached the checkpoint by now, and was frantically arguing with the stationed guards. His arms gestured empathetically towards her, but she wasn’t close enough to hear what he was saying. 

To her shock, the guards laughed and waved him through. She was going to have them  _ murdered _ . She ran the last few feet, not missing how Nikolai had stopped about halfway across the bridge and turned to watch her. 

“KGB,” she snarled in German when the guards stopped her. “Let me through.”

That bastard was  _ smiling _ at her as he practically lounged against the bridge railing. 

The guards looked her up and down doubtfully. “Identification please,” one of them finally asked.

She reached into the pocket of her dress, but there was nothing there. She tried the other pocket. Nothing. What the actual hell, she knew she’d slipped her card in at the bar. Had she left it in her car somehow?

His laugh caught her attention. She whipped her head up towards him just as he reached into his pocket and pulled out her identification card. He waved it teasingly at her.

“ _ Don’t you dare–” _

He flicked it into the river below. She was going to  _ murder _ him; she could already feel the beginnings of a plan writing itself in her mind. There wasn’t a superpower country in the world that could keep him safe. He winked and she could practically hear him speaking into her ear “ _ I’ll be seeing you soon _ .”

Oh, he had no idea. She watched his retreating back until it disappeared behind the barricades of the Western side without incident. The next time they met, she was going to kill him, consequences be damned. With that silent promise, she turned on her heel and stalked back to her car.

_ Your days are numbered, Lantsov. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We'll likely have a very brief third chapter detailing exactly what happens in the next six months before they meet again 👀


	3. Before Paris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A glimpse of KGB and CIA's top agents months after the events in Berlin.

_Russia_

Istanbul was an absolute disaster. Zoya had been double crossed by a no good doctor whom she’d been stupid enough to trust when she hurt her leg. She was lucky to have gotten out of there with nothing but the clothes on her back and a bullet in her leg. And the piece of paper she’d hastily swiped off her nightstand before fleeing.

Even as a doctor pulled the bullet out of her leg and stitched the wound up, all she could think about was the postcard she’d received on her last day in Istanbul. Like all the others that had found her in Cairo, Tokyo, and so many other cities, the back was blank except for her current address and a postmark from an equally foreign city. And the front was _always_ an image of Berlin. 

It was a bit concerning how Lantsov was so good at keeping tabs on where she was. But she supposed he wasn’t “best in the field” for nothing despite his rather idiotic tendencies. 

The doctor wrapped her leg and sent her home with painkillers and a warning to not strain herself that Zoya knew she wasn’t going to heed. Genya was already on her couch when she unlocked the door to her apartment, a worried look on her face. Zoya really should have upgraded her home security. 

“I heard about Istanbul.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” She tossed her keys onto the dining room table. Her friend looked like she wanted _very much_ to talk about it, but thankfully didn’t bring it up. 

“David made borscht for you. It’s in the fridge.”

“Oh.” Zoya was sometimes taken aback by the kindness of Genya and David. In their world, friends were usually the people most likely to stab you in the back. “Thank you.”

She limped off into the kitchen. But before she entered, she pulled open the lowest drawer of her writing desk. The postcard in her coat joined the dozens others already there, tracing back nearly the whole six months since Berlin. She didn’t have the heart to throw them out, and she could probably use the postmarks to track Lantsov’s movements. For intelligence purposes. 

“What’s so special about Berlin? I’m sure you don’t need thirty-three postcards to remember a city by, ” Genya asked in a teasing tone. Zoya sighed. Having another spy as one’s best friend meant no secrets. She slammed the drawer shut.

“Nothing. Just… sentimental value.” She prayed Genya would drop it, but of course, no such thing happened. 

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were going soft,” Genya said with a laugh. She put the book she was reading back on its shelf and started heading for the door. She was halfway out the door when she suddenly stopped and turned towards Zoya who was still standing by the desk with her arms crossed defensively. 

“Is that a Degas?” Genya nodded at the new painting framed on the opposite wall.

Zoya studied the ballet dancers, lovingly painted with light brushstrokes. The painting had showed up on her doorstep one day and she’d decided not to think too hard about it. She kept her tone neutral. “Is that what it is?”

Genya shook her head and muttered something that sounded like “ridiculous” under her breath before leaving and shutting the door behind her. 

Zoya had a quick dinner of a rather delicious borscht (who knew David could cook) with a side of painkillers and then treated herself to a long bath. Her leg still ached fiercely. Maybe she actually would have to follow doctor’s orders for once. She flopped into bed and cracked open a new romance novel, shifting until she was comfortable with her injury.

The protagonist had _just_ met the man of her dreams when the shrill ringing of the phone interrupted her. She placed the book down and sighed. Something about this situation felt oddly familiar. Cursing, she forced herself out of her warm cocoon of blankets and limped to the phone in the living room.

“Алло?” The line was silent save for some scuffling in the background. Only Genya and a few other higher-ups had her number, and none of them seemed prone to prank-calling. She tried again. “Алло?”

There was a rustle, then a male voice with a smooth American accent she didn’t recognize began speaking quickly. “Sorry for the call at such a late hour, ma’am. My partner here, bless his heart, is a bit gone right now and he dialed your number by accident–”

There was another scuffle, muffled cursing, then a thud that was probably the phone being dropped. Zoya sank into the couch, guessing this would take a while. Who the hell were they? And how did they have her number?

“Zoyaaa,” a chillingly familiar voice whined into the phone. Her fingers stilled their tapping. _Lantsov_. She should have guessed. She briefly considered contacting headquarters to trace the call, but he could have been thousands of miles away for all she knew. They would never get to him in time. She tried to relax.

“Lantsov. What’s the purpose of this call?” She sure hadn’t forgotten her promise of murdering him the next time they met, but it was hard to be angry at someone who sounded so incredibly...childish. He must have had too much to drink.

“Zoya, I miss you. I want to see you again.” His syllables were slurred and he sounded like a petulant child. Zoya rolled her eyes. She wanted to see him again for a very different reason.

“Where are you?”

“Uhhh...Europe. South Europe. Are you coming?”

“Can’t. I’ve been prescribed bed rest for the next week.” She wasn’t sure why she told the truth. Probably because she was fairly certain he wouldn’t remember a word of their conversation come morning. 

“Are you okay? Istanbul–”

“How did you know about Istanbul? You sent a postcard.” Her voice sharpened with accusation.

“Oh yeah. I guess I did. I have my ways, comrade.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Comrade.”

“I’m going to hang up.”

“Wait!” There was more static from his end. “I got you something as a souvenir. It should arrive soon.”

Zoya’s lips twitched. “Please lose my address. This is highly unprofessional.”

“But how will I find you then? I remember you promising venga- vene-”

“Vengeance,” the other man provided, his voice tinny in the background.

“Yes! You promised vengeance,” he said proudly.

Zoya stayed silent, but Lantsov seemed content to babble about how hard his day had been all due to the lackluster breakfast omelette he’d ordered at a cafe. She felt herself starting to nod off on the couch, the painkillers finally starting to kick in. Her eyelids drooped.

“You know,” he said quietly, his rant over as quickly as it had begun. “I have a feeling we’re going to see each other soon.”

“Oh?” Zoya was already drifting off and she mumbled her next words. “I think I would like that.”

  
  


She woke with a crick in her neck and a Rodin left at the door. 

  
***

_Italy_

“Prove that you’re strong enough, _sobachka._ ”

Nikolai gritted his teeth at the use of his codename. The pounding in his head had become worse in the past hour, and his vision had started splitting images in two. But he could take this. He wasn’t one of the CIA’s top agents for nothing.

“Screw you, Kirigin,” he hissed. 

Then Nikolai downed the shot of vodka in front of him. 

Kirigin let out a loud whoop, pumping a fist in the air, as Nikolai slammed the glass back to the counter. The burn hit the back of his numbing throat, and he sent a glare to his partner’s direction. He’d get back at the man in a moment. 

Rome was a success; Nikolai hadn’t expected their undercover mission to be done in two weeks. His estimation had been over a month, but when a major slip up from one of the drug dealers they had been working for happened, it didn’t take them long to know the location of the main lab of the drug cartel. 

Their handlers let them stay for another night before they get to fly back home. So here they were, in the apartment they were currently staying at, drunk as the ones in a pub until morning.

Kirigin had decided to buy three bottles of vodka and challenge him on whoever could stay up the longest, even when their flight was at six in the morning. Nikolai supposed he wouldn’t have agreed if it weren’t on his partners tab.

Kirigin poured them another shot—the bastard didn’t know when to quit even when his hands were already straying away from the rim of the shot glass. But, in his defense, he still looked sober. “You really have to tell me about Berlin,” Kirigin said.

Nikolai winced, snatching his glass away. He suddenly remembered the postcard he had sent over to Istanbul; where his. . . . former _dalliance’s_ last mission was. He could only hope that she received it before she left.

Zoya really ought to check her favorite bracelet for the bug. 

“I told you” —Nikolai downed the drink— “it was just a whirlwind of casual _flirting._ ”

Kirigin scowled. “I don’t believe you.”

“Then don’t.”

“Come on, tell me.” 

Nikolai shook his head, more to shake away the spinning of his vision than saying no. Hell, he was like a child trying to keep his candy from being taken away by a stranger. He poured himself another drink, and frowned after. Why was he drinking again? Oh, right. _Free drinks; Kirigin paid._ “Nope, not telling ‘ya,” he slurred, drinking another shot. 

Kirigin sighed. “Alright, fine. Have your secrets.” He narrowed his eyes. “Unless what you’ve been saying for the past half year was bull.”

An idea popped in Nikolai’s head. Maybe he could give her a call. “You’ll drink half—no, the _whole_ bottle if I’m able to prove it.”

Kirigin laughed, letting his head fall back to the counter. “Yeah, sure. Whatever.”

Nikolai smirked, and then wobbly stood up from his seat. He sauntered to the living room with a bottle in hand, looking for the telephone on the stand. When he found it, his smirk grew wider. “Wrong challenge, partner,” he said, laughing.

He stared at the keypad, the numbers flying around his vision as he tried to remember Zoya’s phone number. Overseas calls were expensive, and this was his way to get back to Kirigin for goading him to more drinks. With a shake of his head, he dialed her number, and slumped on the couch.

“I’ll give her a call if you like,” Nikolai offered, waving the receiver near his ear for emphasis. “Oh, wait. I’m already giving her a call.”

Kirigin’s head shot up. “What, no—” His eyes widened, and Nikolai saw the loss in them. He pointed a finger up to the phone on Nikolai’s ear. “Lantsov, put that down.”

“ _No._ ” 

“Don’t make me—” Kirigin stood up and ran towards Nikolai, trying to reach for the phone but Nikolai held it away and stopped Kirigin from advancing with an arm on his chest. “No fair!”

Nikolai held Kirigin at arm’s length as the other end continued to ring. “Stop squirming,” he slurred. He kept the hand holding the phone away from his ear when Kirigin almost snatched it. “Just accept your loss, okay?” Kirigin continued to struggle, and Nikolai put back the phone to his ear.

And he froze when he heard _her_ voice. “Hello?” said Zoya in Russian.

Nikolai’s arm that was holding Kirigin back must have gone slack because the man’s hand closed around the phone and snatched it away from his ear.

“Sorry for the call at such a late hour, ma’am. My partner here” —Kirigin glared at Nikolai for a moment as if saying ‘ _shut up_ ’— “bless his heart, is a bit gone right now and he dialed your number by accident—”

 _He’s going to end the call_ , Nikolai thought, and he reached up to take the phone back, But his movements were already sloppy due to his drunkenness. “You’re going to drink that damned bottle—”

“What the hell are you doing—” Kirigin leaned back as Nikolai tried to get the receiver from him, and due to their tug-o-war, it slipped from Kirigin’s hand and the _whole_ telephone clattered to the floor. 

Nikolai picked up the receiver, held it to his ear, and drawled, “ _Zoyaaaaa._ ” Somewhere in the back of mind, he heard his other still-sober self laughing. He was sure he would forget this conversation tomorrow. He needed to, because it’d be forever remembered that Nikolai Lantsov had drunk called KGB’s Zoya Nazyalensky.

“Lantsov,” her voice still held the same flatness, and he pouted. He definitely _missed_ her. “What’s the purpose of this call?”

Kirigin once again tried to get the phone from Nikolai, but it had been less forceful due to him stifling a laugh. Nikolai batted his partner’s hand away with a childish frown.

“Zoya, I miss you,” he said before he could even stop himself. Beside him, Kirigin was holding a hand to his face, his shoulders shaking from laughing. Nikolai only rolled his eyes. “I want to see you again.”

“Where are you?”

“Uh, Europe. South Europe.” He wanted to smack himself, but he couldn’t seem to stop talking. _This damned vodka._ “Are you coming?”

A beat. “Can’t. I’ve been prescribed bed rest for a week.”

Through Nikolai’s drunk and hazy mind, worrying for her still seemed an active part. “Are you okay?” he asked, a bit panicked. “Istanbul—”

“How did you know about Istanbul?” Zoya’s voice sharpened in accusation, making Nikolai flinch. _Through a bug, of course,_ he thought but bit his tongue. “You sent a postcard.”

“Oh, yeah. I guess I did.” He scratched his head, seemingly an embarrassed teenager. “I have my ways, comrade.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Comrade.”

He could practically see Zoya roll her eyes. “I’m going to hang up.”

“Wait!” Nikolai held an arm out in a gesture of ‘stop’ as if doing so would keep her from hanging up. Beside him, Kirigin lost it and fell on the carpeted floor, laughing his brains out. Nikolai ignored him. “I got you something as a souvenir. It should arrive soon.”

“Please lose my address. This is highly unprofessional.”

Nikolai pouted. “But how will I find you then? I remember you promising venga—” He stopped. What was that word again? _Vengace? Venegance?_ He tried again, “Vene—”

He felt Kirigin nudge the edge of his leg with a toe. “Vengeance,” Kirigin supplied from the floor.

“Vengeance!” Nikolai said with a proud smile as if he were the one who thought of the word.

Zoya stayed silent, and he wondered— _panicked_ —if he had said something wrong. Had she already ended the call? But he was sure he could still hear her breathing from the other side of the line. Nikolai leaned his chin on a hand, staring at the nothingness in front of him. As quickly as his babble-mouth had begun spewing embarrassing things to her, he suddenly felt calm.

“You know,” he said, looking down at the bottle still in his hand, “I have a feeling we’re going to see each other soon.”

“Oh?” Zoya’s voice came, soft and tired. Then, as if she were fighting sleep, she added, “I think I would like that.”

Nikolai froze. _What—_

The line went static, and the call ended. He lowered the phone, still staring at the shelf in bewilderment. Did she mean it?

Beside him, Kirigin _tsked_. “Oh, man, you got it bad,” he said, shaking his head with a laugh. He drank straight from the bottle for a moment, and, with a grimace, said, “I’m not doing your challenge, by the way.”

Nikolai tossed the _telephone_ back to his partner, who barely caught it. “I’ll do it, and then smash the bottle on your head after,” he muttered. “Do or die?”

“Damn, someone’s in love.”

He was tempted to throw the bottle at him. “Shut up.”

Nikolai pondered about the last thing he told Zoya, the surety of his words bringing a small smile to his lips. He was definitely going to see her soon.

***

A week later, back in the US, he received a message on his pager.

_CIA headquarters’ briefing room at 10. It’s urgent._

Nikolai could only frown as he tried to guess what was coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continuation coming out next year! ;)


End file.
